The Lowe Down
by Harold Lowe
Summary: Setting the record straight.


The audience was comprised of women. Well, women might have been an understatement; most of them looked more like girls, who were dressed in their finest, trying to pass themselves off as women. Their outfits and coloring were as varied as a rainbow, and they all came from "different" backgrounds, but all of them had two things in common.

The first thing, strangely, was that they were all gagged. Every single one of them. The reason for that measure was to protect the man on stage.

Bringing the narrator to the second thing they had in common -- they were all madly in love with that man.

It wasn't entirely hard to see where he would catch attention. Though he wasn't very tall, and rather slim, he had a presence. Intensity would probably be the best word -- he looked intense. With black eyes and a leanness that gave the impression of quickness, he wasn't exactly what one would consider a male model, but he was striking enough; a study of contrasts. He looked sharp and alert and like someone that bigger and meaner people would think twice about before picking a fight with.

It wasn't just that keen intensity, though. There was also a way he held himself that spoke of confidence. Even competence. He firmly gave the impression of a man who knew what he was doing. It was a confidence that belied his somewhat more youthful looks -- the kind that was hard fought for and won. The kind that could only come with many years of hard work in a very adult world.

His name was Harold Godfrey Lowe. He was, of course, the fifth officer of the famed Titanic. But he was also a master mariner. He was a tough, intelligent, cool-headed son-of-a-bitch who crawled through the ranks the hard way -- living in awful conditions, facing death on a regular basis, always striving to be the master of his profession. He had been at sea almost as long as some of those girls had been alive.

The problem was, all those girls in the audience didn't fall for him, really. They fell for some strange, watered-down, distorted creature that shared only his name and none of what really made him something unique.

He was about to address that. He stood, quite coolly calm, and when he spoke up (get this!) he actually had an English accent.

"Let's start simple. I am not a puppy." He tipped his chin up, looking over the audience from his vantage, speaking with an easy certainty, "I am not a teenaged boy. I am not a lovesick child. I am not patrolling the seas looking for my one true love. If you want to get technical, I've already met her; I write her letters, I send her things, I get on a train whenever I can to go see her. I suppose that's neither here nor there for you, but I thought I'd do well to mention it anyway."

Hoping that it was registering with his gagged audience, he started pacing the length of the stage, speaking all the while, "I don't get days off. I really do work for my living, and I work hard. And while you may be put off by the clean and neat uniform, that uniform does not give me special rights. It only means that instead of carousing with you lot, I have a duty to perform. I take my career very seriously, and certainly take it seriously enough that I would never risk it for any of you.

"I work. When I'm not working, I'm eating or sleeping and very little else. I don't get leisure time. I barely get enough rest to keep a clear head, and I would not sacrifice that rest for the sake of chasing your petticoats or whatnot."

He squared up again to face the audience, the only sign of his irritation a brief narrowing of his eyes. "Speaking of my career... I want you to think for a moment. I didn't start out as some young pup, handed these brass buttons and given free run of the White Star's finest. I fought tooth and nail to get here. I have spent half of my life at sea; crawled through the hawsepipe, staring down waves half as tall as the mainmast, living with my feet in footropes -- freezing and worn out, often to the point where even death didn't scare me and all I cared about was falling into a wet bunk on moldy straw and sleeping for a few minutes before I was called out again.

"I know that your biggest concerns in life are limited to fitting in with your peers, but I lived and still live in a world where one mistake, one foolish miscalculation can kill someone. So when you imagine me shirking that duty for your sake, you're discrediting the very long, hard road I took to earn my position. To that? How dare you."

Though it was obvious that he was getting more irritated the more he thought about it, he still managed an even tone. He had good projection on his voice; a certain quality that an officer needed to be heard above howling winds and shrieking rigging. "All career aside, half of you don't even exist. I have sisters and brothers, yes -- none of you are them. Likewise with my colleagues; their children are their children. You are not their children.

"Those of you who could theoretically exist, however... here are some things you might want to bear in mind. First, I do not drink. Ever. My reasons for this are none of your bloody business, but I never touch alcohol, never have and never will. I cannot possibly emphasize that enough. And to whichever one of you who accused me of such, you can go to hell." Given the very smoky look in his eyes, he meant that -- found it not only deeply offensive, but maybe even personally hurtful.

Then he continued, "Second, I really am no child. I am not going to fall in love with some overdressed, first class girl over the course of a few days. I know that many of you believe that's the way the world works... it isn't. It takes a lot more than some less-than-witty banter and a fancy dress to win a man over. I, for one, prefer genuine people and none of you, not a one, has shown that fine quality. Being what you consider daring or exciting or forward thinking isn't the same thing as being genuine. Maybe one day you'll understand the difference."

He finally paced back to center stage and clasped his hands behind his back. "There's a great deal more that I could address that I find offensive. That I consider an insult to my life, to my career, to what makes me who I am. But I'll simply leave you with this: Love me or hate me, I can do nothing about it.

"But at least love me or hate me for who I am, and not who you want me to be."

And with that, he walked out.


End file.
